


Wager of Sin

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [29]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mirrors, Smut, language learning, more games, weird elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:49:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was, some time ago, talk of a wager. Talk of who could learn a language faster, an elf or a dwarf.</p><p>Time to find out. Time for someone to win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wager of Sin

“Where, exactly, are you planning on stopping tonight?” he asks, and I shrug. I had not thought about it. This road is safe enough in these days, there seems no need to plan ahead much. 

“Wherever you like, meleth-nin,” I answer, assuming he will pick some camping place seemingly at random, build a fire, and – and later, snore all night long, holding me to him. This is the usual pattern of days on the road, and so, since it is still but midday, I had not thought ahead. He would say I never do. He is wrong. I do sometimes. 

When I cannot avoid it.

I am an elf. It is hard to think ahead in small amounts. My mind calculates in larger time frames, and – and I do not wish to think in decades, centuries, now my very existence is hostage to fleeting mortal time.

“It is just – that I was looking at a map – “ he stops, and I cannot help but interject,  
“Well done, did you manage to read any words? Or were they in elvish script? Or – “ but I stop, as he pulls my hair, gently, but I know I would be sorry were I to go on with this.

“I said, I was looking at the map, and it seems to me, we could save ourselves a night – or even two – camping. And have a bath,” and there is something about the way he says ‘bath’ that warns me he is not entirely concerned with cleanliness. 

“And where is this – oh, no. No. I am not stopping there. We had this argument on the way to the Shire. Stop it. I am not staying with those – proud – Noldor. Not with those twins.” I know very well which of his words I would use to describe them, but I cannot actually say it. I know some elves do, I know even some of mine do, but – I cannot.

“Beloved,” he says, in that voice which means he thinks he knows best and has a plan to get round me, “beloved, we met there.”

“And any courting we ever did was done in battle, or in other unpleasant circumstances,” I snap, almost, but not quite, tempted to mention the paths of the dead – but that would be most unkind. It is not his fault he is mortal, and so scared of such things. Indeed – I still feel it is to my shame that I did not realise, and left him. But – I do not wish to see Noldor. “Or will you be wishing to revisit those as well? Shall we find some orcs to fight together?” I pause, reflecting that he would probably enjoy that, and try to control myself, to think of another reason, but it is no good, “I – to be honest – meleth – I would rather that. Please – I – do not make me go to the house of those twins. I – surely you understand – I do not wish to be in guest-friendship with them?”

He makes one of his dwarven noises, but I am not so easily cowed as sometimes. This matters.

There is silence, but for the sound of horses’ feet – our dear Arod, and our new Rochegen, so kindly gifted by Eomer – for Arod ages, and my love seems to acquire more and more dwarvish clutter to carry around – and so a second horse for carrying bags becomes necessary. I suppose he is company for Arod. 

Time passes with the miles, and I drift, forgetting the argument in the peace of being held, of the knowledge of nights past and nights to come.

He strokes my ear, bringing me back to myself,  
“If you are persisting in this stubbornness, we had best camp here,” he says, not angry now, resigned I think, “But – it seems a shame. I daresay the food is still good, the beds – wide, and the water hot. And – who is to say the twins are even there? Besides, I think you already are in guest-friendship with them, after staying there before, not to mention our ties to their foster brother and his wife, their sister. At least, I think it would be hard to refuse them.”

I suppose he is right. But before I need admit it, he adds,  
“I have heard, although this may be wrong, that the – librarian, I think, Erestor – speaks both your Sindarin and my Khuzdul, and there is still a matter of a wager to be settled between us.”

Oh. 

I had forgotten that.

That has been going on so long, I was beginning to despair of it ever being settled. His language is impossible – I – I simply cannot make the sounds. Cannot remember the words – except – some. Those I think I am least likely to need to speak to any but him. Somehow, those are the only words he seems able to make me remember.

Yet – his progress – is little better. Oh, he remembers the words, learns phrases even, but – he cannot change them, cannot have a conversation that does not stay on the path he has learnt to follow. I begin to think dwarves must have some strange ideas, that he cannot learn the difference between past and future, or different pasts, that he cannot tell one or dual or plural. And so many times he becomes impatient, says I change the rules – when I do not, how could I? He twists the grammar, twists the sense, it seems hopeless.

I cannot see that either of us can ever win.

And for what? 

An evening, we said, an evening where the other will do as we ask.

But – there is nothing now I could ask for. I know of nothing he would not do without my asking in such a way.

When we said it, I – I do not know what I really thought – I think – I think – I thought he would need persuading to sing with me, to me. And indeed, that took me many months. I remember how he laughed, how he said I was foolish to wish for such a thing, how he – he could not believe I was serious.

He denied being able to sing.

As though there is a being created who cannot.

“Do not tell me you cannot sing,” I remember saying, looking up at him, “I have heard you sing. Once. In Mor – in Khazad-dum. And – and I fell in love. Without knowing what it meant, without knowing the words for how I felt, I began to love you when I heard you sing. So do not you now tell me you cannot, will not, or I shall think you wish me to no longer burn for you.” Which, of course, was not fair.

But it worked.

He will not sing anywhere he thinks another might hear.

Yet.

I will persuade him, one day. I have plans. 

I thought – I thought it might take more skills than I have to entice him to join me in a flet – for I knew there would soon be flets in Ithilien – and – I am wood-elf enough to need to love him among branches. But – I found ways to persuade him. 

I usually can.

My love is not a complicated dwarf.

However, there is nothing I wish to gain by this wager, and yet, I do not fear it – for I think there is nothing he could wish to gain that he does not have. There is, I think, nothing he could ask I would not do.

At least, I cannot imagine it.

I suppose it would be nice to settle this.

I sigh, as one who is giving in, doing a great favour, might sigh.

“Very well, melethron-nin,” I say, “if it is so important, we can go on to the valley of Imladris tonight.”

 

 

Indeed, the courtesy of the House is such that I feel at ease. Those dreadful twins are not here, and I am able to relax as much as any Silvan can in such company. For indeed, I feel no princely Sindar here, I am wood-elf through and through.

But, as my love supposed, the food is good, the water hot – and I suspect he has plans for a longer bath another day – and the beds wide.

Not that there has been time for such things. 

It is odd though, in an elven realm – to be given a room with – only one large bed. I would have expected – two beds. Or more, for groups. 

I suppose perhaps the half-elven nature of the lords of Imladris has made a difference to their customs.

After the intimidating formality of the dinner, I am hoping for some quiet time in the Hall, listening to some of the remaining minstrels – though indeed the House is quieter than it was before. As we stand to leave the table, one of the servers comes to us, and says quietly, but in a way that brooks no refusal, that his masters would speak to us in their study.

We follow him, and I wonder whether my guess was right, and that those twins are here, but no. It seems the masters he speaks of are those in charge in the absence of any of the line of Earendil. 

As ever, my love is the first to answer their welcome, and to speak of our hobbit friends. These two, it seems, were fond of Bilbo, and so are interested to hear of his young cousins. I find it easiest to remain silent, and listen. I am an elf, we are supposed to be enigmatic. Although that works less well here, among other elves.

Suddenly, I find I must pay attention.

“Councillor,” I hear my love say, turning to the darker, slighter elf, “I have heard that your lord Elrond was not the only speaker of my tongue in Imladris. Is it true? Do you indeed have knowledge of Khuzdul?”

They exchange a glance, and I wonder at the concern they show,  
“Yes indeed, Lord Gimli, I do speak Khuzdul, a little, as much as, I think, any elf – save your presence, your highness,” he glances at me, and I shrink a little away from the title, fearing Ada would not really like me still to be thought of as such, “is there something I can help with?”

“Indeed there is,” my love is grinning now, but the fourth person in the room is not.

“No,” he breaks in, “no, Erestor, you will not go to the mines of Moria on any foolish bloody dwarf-errand, any stupid quest, I forbid it.”

I look at him in shock. Who is he to speak thus to the lord Erestor? Well, he is the great elf-lord Glorfindel – but – oh. The balrog-slayer. I suppose he has more cause than most to fear what may be hidden in those deep places. One balrog was killed in Moria – does he suspect there may be more?

Now it is councillor Erestor who is looking annoyed,  
“I shall do as I choose, my lord,” he says, and for an instant I think I recognise his tone, “I managed to make my own decisions for many years before you returned to us, I think I can still do so now.”

“And some of those decisions were not so very wise,” the other replies, and again, the readiness with which he argues reminds me of – something, “otherwise I suppose the Valar would not have permitted me to return, had I not been thought necessary.”

“Necessary? In what way – “ this appears as though it could go on for many hours, but my love, never one to hold back, breaks in,

“Peace, elves,” he growls, and I think he has forgotten he is not in my Ithilien, then “this is no dwarvish quest, as you put it. This is – to settle a simple wager. Between my Legolas and I.”

They turn and look at us once more, and I feel my ears flush. We are vowed – all our own people know – and – and I thought I was used to the stares. But now, I find I am not.

It is Glorfindel who speaks,  
“Then the rumours we heard are true. He is your elf, with all that implies, is he? Well. Lucky you. And doubtless that has brought joy to Mir – Eryn Lasgalen.”

Little as I like his reference to my – not home, not any longer, but – the Forest I come from, it is the – I have not the word – look in his eye as he says ‘lucky you’ that has me quietly resolving to stay clear of this warrior. I am not sure why.

Seeing my confusion, and indeed, reading the expression of dislike which crosses my love’s features, Erestor speaks,  
“Indeed, I will help if I can. What is this wager?”

And I listen as the problem is put forward.

“.......so you see, everytime we are in Ithilien, he says I have now had longer than he last had when we were in Aglarond, and then I say the opposite when we are back in the Caves. Few indeed there are who speak both Sindarin and Khuzdul. We are hopeful that as you do, you can judge between us and solve this matter.”

Erestor raises an eyebrow,  
“And the difference in skill is so small that the few days travel are an issue?” he asks, disbelievingly, as well he may be.

I look at him, and find it is my turn to answer,  
“No,” I say, “and in truth, I at least, know full well who is going to win. However, neither of us will accept a victory – or loss – that can in any way be argued over.”

The lord Glorfindel makes a most undignified noise, and turns away. Erestor is more – controlled. He merely smiles,  
“Now, then?”

And when we nod, he begins to speak.

He speaks Sindarin. Perfect. No trace of a Silvan accent, no trace of the changes we use. For an instant, I think that maybe, just maybe, I have a chance.

Then my love replies.

And I – I realise he has not been entirely honest with me. This wager must matter to him more than I thought. I wonder why? 

The conversation lasts some length of time. The councillor manages to test almost every part of speech without it feeling false.

He turns to me, and speaks. I recognise it as Khuzdul. I recognise some of the words. Enough to be able to guess what he says.

I can even cobble together a reply.

Of sorts.

Kindly, he does not raise his brow at me, and I am grateful that the lord Glorfindel has no idea how hopeless I am. My beloved, unusually, conceals the glee he must be feeling.

The ordeal continues for – a very short time.

Councillor Erestor leans back and looks at each of us.

“I think you both know perfectly well that – that lord Gimli is the clear victor in this. I am only intrigued why this charade was necessary.”

“Oh,” Glorfindel breaks in, “I can tell you that. And, if you think, my dear, dear, councillor, you too will know. Either – because it is more fun to draw these things out – or because the prize is something very – particular. So, please – what is the prize?”

I had not thought of this question. Foolish of me. Daft, even. And I find – I find I do not like hearing the answer spoken as my love replies,  
“But a small matter of an evening to be spent as the winner – and that, ghivashel, would be me – as I choose.”

Both the others laugh, and I see their eyes meet, as Erestor says,  
“Oh. That sort of wager. We know about those, do we not, Findel-nin?”

And I see – Glorfindel – _Glorfindel_ – colour. His cheeks and ears are flushed as pink as mine must be. 

“We do indeed, meleth,” he replies, “although it is perhaps time we set ourselves another challenge,” and they hold gazes a little longer, before he turns and I hear him ask, “so, Gimli, will you be requiring – anything – for your evening?” he goes on to say something else, and I would like to hear, and to know my love’s reply, for they are both grinning and – and I fear they are laughing at me from the language of their eyes.

But Erestor is smiling at me, and saying,  
“I am sorry, Legolas. But – you are dreadful.”

I shrug,  
“I know. It took me long enough to learn Sindarin or Westron, even though I was but an elfling – remember, we used Silvan in my Forest in those days. Indeed, I never mastered more than a little Quenya. I care not. There is nothing I could ask of him he would not do. Or indeed, I do not think he would ask anything I would not give. This – is just a game.”

This surprising Noldor smiles again,  
“But one of those best games, where there is neither winner nor loser, for how can there be gain or loss between two so bound? Now go, I think your lord is counting the minutes of his evening.”

I had not known a Noldor could be so – kindly.

We bid them goodnight, and we go, neither of us daring to speak until we gain our own room.

 

 

Once in our room, I turn to him, and I cannot help it, I am burning to discuss this. What does it mean? Can elves – are they – did they just imply – or not?

He sees my face,  
“Oh no,” he says, “I have waited long enough for this, learnt enough bloody elvish to talk to more trees than I want. We will talk for hours about those two – but not now. Right now, this is my hard-won evening. So – go and stand in the corner over there, with your back to me, and strip.”

I – I do not know what to think. I am not sure what I was expecting, but not this. I – I am not sure I like that tone of voice.

Part of me certainly does not.

But – I – well. Maybe.

I keep my pride, I raise an eyebrow in the most – Thranduilion – manner I can, before I saunter over to the indicated corner, and I do indeed strip. 

I am an elf. I do not mind baring my body.

I can hear him clattering about, and – I am sorely tempted to look, because I cannot think what he is doing. Or why.

“Is – is this a game, melethron-nin?” I ask – and I wish I did not sound quite so nervous. 

“Yes love,” he says in a very – patient – voice. And I think – well, of course. I mean – is this a new game? Is this a game you know? Is this a game I will like? Something occurs to him, and I hear the smile in his voice as he goes on, “and a game I think you will be glad to play with me, and not with the – mortal – friends of the lord Glorfindel.”

Now I am even more intrigued. And nervous.

“Do not ask,” he says, “not now. It would take too long to explain. Far, far too long.”

What? 

Does everyone but me know these things?

I – I thought elves did not. Now I am feeling – unsure – again. Is it me? Are there things everyone but me knows? Why do I never – never – feel – as though I am – I have not the words – but – I thought by now – I would not be so easily lost. This world – I am forever stumbling – trying to understand – to please him – and – and I thought – I thought it was that I am an elf – but – now – he must think it is me – that I am very foolish. 

“I’m quite shocked, actually,” he says, “I can’t imagine Elrond approving – that Glorfindel – well. I will tell you tomorrow. But – not something I have ever wanted, and I am bloody sure you wouldn’t.”

Oh. 

I think that makes it a bit better.

“Meleth,” I say, “what are you doing? I – I am very tired of looking at this wall. And – I really, really do not wish to think about Noldor. Any of them. Please.”

He laughs,  
“Sorry love. I am rearranging things. But I am done now,” and he comes over to me, and I can feel his hands run down my back. I shiver, “lovely,” he says, “now, pretty one, come and sit on the bed for me. And – but Legolas, love, you haven’t unbound your hair?”

I feel my ears flush.

“Oh,” and I hear the laugh in his voice, “you want me to? Come here then, you are too tall standing.”

He takes my hands, and leads me to the bed, and I – I am concentrating so much on him, that I am sat down before I notice what he has done. 

“Gimli-nin, you have put all these mirrors – round – the bed.”

He sighs, slightly impatiently,  
“Yes, elf, I know what I have done. Why? Because you are beautiful. And I like to look at you. I like – very much – very, very much – to look at you. And I think you might like the sight too.”

I am puzzled,  
“But – I know what I look like.”

Now he looks – very impatient indeed – and around me huff a score of dwarves – reflected over and over.

“No, you know how you look when you stand in front of a glass to arrange yourself. You have no idea, my beloved, how you look when I play with you. How you flush, how you wriggle, how – oh my elf – how you look when I am in you. How your eyes shine, how your skin glows, how – oh fucks sake, just relax and trust me.”

I shrug. I think I will not say that – I do not care what I look like. I know how he looks. And – to be honest – it is not the looks that matter. When – when we – love – it is how it feels, the words he speaks – that is what matters to me. But – I suppose this is not too alarming, as games go.

“Oh you are so lovely,” he says, his hands running through my hair, “now, will you comb for me again? I want to watch you, but – I want you to see me watching you. Comb for me, touch your pretty ears, and – I would like to see you touch yourself. Yes?”

I am flushed, I can see that. I – I do not know – not really – why he would want this. The combing – he asked me to before – and – yes, it – it was good. But – oh, why do I bother to try and understand? If it is what he wants, he has never yet led me wrong in this. I nod, and I find – I am shy.

Daft elf, I tell myself, how can you be shy? This is your love, your One, your only, the other half of your soul. What is there to be shy about?

This. 

I – I comb myself, and he watches. His eyes, reflected at me, so I cannot turn away, and – I feel – nervous. For no good reason. 

“What are you thinking, love?” he asks, “talk to me. I want to hear your thoughts, my sweet love, tell me what you think of as you comb.”

I hesitate, then “Melethron,” I say, “I know this is your evening – but – I – I am not – very – good at that – I – can I ask - ?”

He looks at me, and I can see only love in his eyes, he is not cross, or impatient, as he says,  
“What? What is it love? You can ask. This – is not about me being in control. Not exactly. It is more – that you have to try whatever I suggest.”

I nod,  
“I will. Just – I would – please – I – very much – like – you to – talk to me?”

He smiles,  
“Oh my pretty love,” he says, “comb for me then. Let me watch your fingers in your hair, let me see your hands on your ear-tips. You like that don’t you? Yes. And – when you are ready – you can tell me what you are thinking. I will tell you what I am thinking of – I am thinking how lovely you look, how flushed you are already, how hard you are getting listening to me. Can you see me touching myself? Do you like that? I think you do, you are breathing faster, your song – oh your sweet song – is changing. As it always does when you are aroused, ready for me – you are ready aren’t you?” he smiles at me again, and I – I am – oh I have not words as he does. 

“I love you,” I say, and I hope he knows what it means. It means – I love you, I want you – you do things to me I still – still – do not understand. I need you. 

Suddenly I realise what he said,  
“My song?” I ask.

“Yes – didn’t you know? Your song – you do know you sing all the time – it shows your mood. I read you by it. Your face – hardly changes, only your ear colour sometimes – but – your song changes. Don’t you read other elves that way?”

Oh.

“A little,” I say, “but – no. Someone’s song – it generally is the same – it is – who they are. I – I suppose the tone might change. Is that what you mean?”

He shrugs,  
“Something like that. But – to return to the matter – in hand – which it isn’t. You have stopped combing. Did I say you could stop, love? No. But, now you have, touch yourself – your ears, and then – I want to see you touch your cock as you touched yourself when you missed me.”

And now, now I am beyond embarrassment. I am flushed, I am – oh I am watching him, watching his pleasure – watching him touch himself – and – I find I can – do as he does – and – oh. I did not know – I did not know this could feel so – look so – he is – oh I love him – he is so – so – beautiful and – he wants me.

“Stop,” he says, and I hear myself whimper as I do, still watching him, still needing more. I – I am so close – I need him – and I clutch at the sheets as I try to stop, to do as he says, but I am desperate, and, “please,” I hear myself say, “please, I – please.”

I am begging, and I am not going to look in these – cruel – mirrors – I do not want to see myself like this – I keep looking at him instead, wondering if he is really going to make me wait, wondering why.

“It’s alright,” he says, “just – wait – it will be worth it. Trust me, ghivashel. Look at me. Just look. Tell me what you want.”

It is all very well for you, I think, you are a dwarf. Made for long distance, made to endure, to keep going. I am not. And – I barely know the words for what I want – at least – I have not spoken them – I am not – not gifted with words. But – oh – I do know – I know so well – what I want – and – and I realise – maybe he wants to hear me speak – maybe I need to try. His hand is still now, he is watching me, waiting. I bite my lip, doubtful.

But as I wonder, I cannot help but look at him. I do not want to look anywhere else. He – he is so – so beautiful. Oh sweet Elbereth, find me words. Please. I stare, and my world narrows, until all I can think of is how – how _fucking good_ – he looks. His muscles, his strength, oh dear Eru, how did I deserve this? his hair, unbound and flowing over his shoulders and back – and perhaps there is a point to these mirrors as I realise I can see all of him – and – oh I know it will feel as silken as it looks when I touch it, but – right now – he moves his hand, just a little, and I watch as a bead of moisture forms, and,  
“I – I want – to – taste you. I – yes?”

He smiles, and I know he is trying not to laugh, I know he finds it funny – pleasing, but funny – how much I like this – but – I do. 

“Yes,” he says, “and – I shall watch you, in these mirrors you so distrust.”

I shall ignore that. I do not care. I lean down, but before I can do more than lick the drop away – and oh it is as good as ever – his hands are on my shoulders,  
“On your knees love, bent over towards me, I would have your hair flowing over me, and – oh my pretty love, you look so good like that. Just – yes –“ he strokes down my back, “yes open your legs so I can see – oh you are perfect – so lovely – so ready for me still, from our earlier loving – and oh my sweet elf.”

And he keeps speaking, and oh – his hands are – where they should be – and he breathes – and oh – he tastes – and oh – I do so love this.

“Pretty elf, you are so good at this. Yes. Oh fuck Legolas, don’t stop,”

I have no desire to stop. This is – how I would spend much of my time, were it only up to me. The taste, the smell, the feel of his hands, the way his hips move in my grasp, the sounds he makes, and the words – oh when he talks to me – oh there are few things better than this. And usually, those better things are saved for after. I want – oh I want – to please him this way – to know myself loved. I want him to know how I love him, how I need him, am obsessed with him. As if there could be any doubt in his mind. He – oh – he is close now and – I – oh sweet Elbereth – I am close – his hands on me – but – for all it is his evening – I make myself pull back,  
“I thought you wanted to wait,” I say, “and look – and – I do not know – but not just – quickly.”

He growls at me,  
“You will regret that,” but I know he means it not. “Very well,” he continues, calming now, “turn over and sit in my lap.” He reaches for the oil as I do as I am told, “And now, my lovely, I would like – very much like – to watch your clever fingers make you desperate for me.”

Oh. 

I had not thought of that. 

I – I am not sure – I – that mirror is watching me. I do as he asks, but – I have never done this – like this – it feels – odd. To be held by him, and yet – touch myself in this way. His hands are not still, one is on my ear, and oh he knows I have no resistance to this, while the other runs lightly over me. 

“You are so beautiful,” he says into my ear, “I love you so. That’s right. One finger, very nice, yes, now – oh now two. Very, very nice. Yes. You know what to do. Does that feel good?”

And I whimper something between yes and no, something between want and need.

“I know,” he says, “I know, treasure. It’s not enough, not enough for you is it? Oh my elf, you need me, don’t you? Can you tell me what you need? No. Oh pretty love, I was told elves were word-skilled – how I love you – how I know what you want. You need me, you need me in you, don’t you? You want my cock, not just those pretty fingers of yours? You want me to fuck you? Yes? Soon. But – oh look how beautiful you are, flushed like this. Look and see you as I see you.”

I do not like this mirror. I – I do not like the way I look. I am glad he does – but I do not. I shut my eyes.

“No,” he whispers, “no, look. Use your hand to guide me into you. Watch. See me having you.”

I make myself look.

“Sweet Eru, that is not going to fit in there,” I say, stupidly.

I cringe. Of all the things to say. 

He is going to be so cross.

No.

He is laughing, helplessly,  
“Oh my daft, daft elf,” he says, eventually, “you know – I know you know – you have had the proof many, many times, last night, and the night before, and how many nights before that? You know it fits very, very well.”

He holds me tight, feeling my embarrassment – probably seeing – I do not know – my eyes are shut and they are staying that way.

“Not right now, though,” he adds, “you have rather – killed the mood.” 

I bite my lip in shame, fearing his anger – why do I always get these things wrong? Now I have – have spoilt everything. He – he will turn away from me. He will not comb me.

He realises, and turns me in his arms,  
“Oh sweet love, it is of no importance. I am sure – very, very sure – we will both be ready again in a minute,” he pauses and then, “you don’t really like the mirrors, do you?”

I shake my head,  
“Sorry. I – I do not mind if you want them. But – I cannot look. I – I often shut my eyes anyway. It feels better.”

He laughs again,  
“Well, if you don’t mind much, we might leave them for now. I would hate to wake half the house if we dropped one moving them back.”

Yes. That would not be good.

“Kiss me,” he says, and – I am lost. All thoughts go, as ever. Nothing left but love and need. He holds me, and I am his. 

“Want,” he says, and I am not about to say anything but, “how?”

“Lap? Or on your knees?” he says, and I – I shrug, wishing to give him the choice. “Knees then, and if you shut your eyes, I shan’t mind.” 

I smile, and – I love him so. I turn easily onto my knees and elbows, my head down on the bed, and – he strokes me, but I want him, I am so ready, I am urgent, pushing back onto him,  
“Really?” he says, and I hear the laugh in his voice, “are you sure it will fit?”

“Gimli,” I am almost wailing, I do not like being teased like this, I thought he knew, but then – then I realise – maybe he wants me to ask – I know how he likes that – and so, “please, Gimli, please. Want you, need you. I – I wouldn’t care if it did hurt – only it won’t – please love.”

His hands are on me, and he is so gentle, so good, so strong and I can hear he is smiling, as he says,  
“I would care, my pretty elf. I have never hurt you – never hurt any for that matter – and I am not going to start now. But – perhaps you are right. You are only an elf – I had best be very careful. Very slow. Ssh now, don’t whimper, it’s alright. One finger, there, that’s nice isn’t it? Yes?”

He actually wants an answer.

“Yes,” I gasp, “Very nice – but – more. Please.”

“Ssh. No need to ask. I know. I know. It’s alright. Just – one finger is probably enough. So tight you are. So hot, so lovely. Ssh. Not going to hurt you.”

“I shall hurt you in a minute,” I say, “annoying dwarf. Give me what you know I want.”

He laughs,  
“Oh my princeling, really. Two fingers then. Is that better? Yes? Oh so lovely. Fuck, you feel good. You look so good like that. Oh push onto me – yes – oh my elf. Do you want to see? You are beautiful.”

“More,” I manage, and, “stop teasing. Need. Not looking.”

And then – then his hand is gone, and I cry out, bereft, but – not for long – he is there, and in me,  
“Better? Yes. Yes I think so. Oh sweet Mahal, you feel so good. And – I know you doubt – I know you are shy – but you look amazing. Can you look in the mirror? Can you meet my eyes while I fuck you? Can you see how beautiful you are, given over to me like this? Your hair, so wild, do you not want to see me loving you?” and as I whimper, and bury my head deeper into the mattress, no, please do not make me look, I think, please my love – he understands, how he understands me, and instead of asking more, he stills, and holds my hips so tight, and, “Oh fuck,” he adds, “I am going to stay still and let you move – oh you are good.”

Part of me wishes I could tease back, but I cannot, I need this so, and I am pushing onto him, moaning with every movement, holding him in me, feeling his need, and – he cannot stay patient – I knew he could not – and oh it is so good. He may be right about the waiting, because – this is – oh so – so good – so much, and I hear my voice rising, calling for more, harder, yes, oh please Gimli, please, and he is pounding into me, and it is as good as ever, better, and oh I love him, I love him, and –

And then – there is a lurch – and I am nearly off the bed, but he holds me – and he does not stop – even though my head is downwards and I – I am not sure what happened – but – but oh it feels so good – and – please – yes – more – and I am pushing back onto him, and – oh – I am screaming – and – oh yes, oh my love. He groans out my name, holding me to him, and I – I am his – and he – he loves me so.

But he does not collapse onto me as he usually does. Instead he pulls back and,  
“Fuck,” he says, “Oh fuck.”

“We just did,” I say, pointing out the obvious, because I want him to smile, but,  
“No, seriously love,” he says, “we have broken the sodding bed.”

He looks worried, and I suppose I should be, but – I cannot help it – I am giggling.

Helplessly.

“It’s not built for dwarves,” I say, “or fucking.”

He is more worried than I think I have ever seen him, “I think we should leave. Very early in the morning. Before Erestor or Glorfindel is up. Really. I do.”

“Why?” I ask, “no-one will come in while we are here.” I shrug, “there is another bed in the other room. We were obviously not supposed to share.”

“Now you tell me,” he says, “bloody useless elves.”

“Noldor,” I remind him, and then “but – if Glorfindel and Erestor – surely – they – Glorfindel is no lightweight – you would think they would have better beds.”

He looks at me,  
“They are elves, love, Glorfindel may have heard of – all kinds of things – but I doubt they do more than comb.”

Oh.

“Then he can explain it to Erestor,” I say, “lucky him. Might open a whole new world to them.”

And now – now we are both laughing at the thought, and my love pulls me into his arms,  
“Oh my daft sodding elf. What would I do without you?”

I nestle close, safe. I do not say, ‘fuck anyone who offers’. That would not be kind.

True though.

What would I do without him? 

Comb. And nothing more.

Truly, Eru, I did not deserve this good fortune.

A question occurs to me, even as I can feel he is drifting into sleep, curled up on this unsteady bed as we are,  
“What kinds of things?” and as he grunts, not following my thoughts, I prod him, “of what has Glorfindel heard? That you do not like, that I would not like? Tell me.”

There is silence, and I think he is asleep, then I realise he is not, he is choosing words, and I say again,  
“Tell me, Gimli-nin, I am not a child. I may be an elf, but I want to know.”

He sighs, “I doubt you do, but – yes I will tell you. There are games – I have told you there are games – that – are not for me. Or you. Games – to do with – restraint, with pain. I do not know exactly what the lord Glorfindel’s friends like to do, and I do not want to. I suppose – he offered me ropes to bind you – or – asked if I would punish you as an elfling.”

I look at him in horror and confusion, I do not understand what he is saying.

“You would not,” I say, and I feel myself start to shake, I feel my courage drain from me, “you would not – not as an elfling – not – not turn away – not be cold – you would not take your comb from me – please. No please, you would not?”

“Of course not, my daft sodding elf,” he says, and pulls me close, “Never would I hurt you. I would not bind you with anything you could not break, I would not hurt you – “ he stops and then, “as an elfling – he meant – put you over my knee and spank your pretty arse – a shame when there are much better things to do with you – so I am not going to – although, there are times when you are a very deliciously naughty elf, and I am tempted – but I don’t think that is what you are hearing, is it?”

I am shaking, and he holds me, until I manage,  
“No. Oh. I see. I – I do not think – I – would you want that?” and when he shakes his head, I am relieved, “I – I thought you meant – as an elfling – I – I could not bear you to – to turn away, to not comb me – to – be cold – please not. You – swear you will not? I – I would try the other if you want but – not that.”

He strokes my ear, gently, holding me to him, and I know, I know, I am safe,  
“I swear,” he says, “I may be cross with you, over the years, I daresay I will be from time to time, as you with me, but – I will not be cold. I will not turn from you, I will not make you sleep – reverie – without combing. I love you, my ghivashel,” he pauses and then grins at me, and something inside me flips, “although – there are times, as I say, when you are, quite deliberately, most deliciously naughty, and it is tempting to – but I would never, ever, unless you thought it fun.”

I am still not convinced that could be fun. 

I do not consider myself ever to be naughty, although he has used the word before, but – I suppose he knows about such games. Maybe one day.

More importantly, I do not like to think of us being cross with one another, I thought that we were past that, that all our misunderstanding, all our confusion was over – but I suppose he is right. He has watched his parents’ marriage, I suppose he knows more of such things than I. And – if he will never turn from me, never stop combing – then all will be well. I relax into him, I touch his ears, I bury my hands in his hair and beard, and then I think of something,

“Is that what you think – he – the lord Glorfindel – wants – with – councillor Erestor?” I bite my lip, I do not know why, but – the idea – seems funny. I want to giggle, but I suppose I should not.

My love has no such compunction, he is laughing at the words,  
“No, I don’t think so,” he says, “I think – honestly? I think the poor elf is just so frustrated he doesn’t know what he wants anymore. Mahal knows how long he has been watching, and wondering, and wanting, and not able to do anything. I suppose – if he is like you – he cannot even bloody wank. Poor sod. But there it is. He is supposed to be very brave, he will have to work out for himself how to ask. Fuck, it took us long enough, I am not inclined to help any. I would not think you would be, for Noldor.”

I smile, and – I suppose he is right. Let them find their own way.

It is only after he is asleep, that I think – that did not take long to explain. And he could not have known how I would be upset. So – is there something else? That he does not like and is sure I will not – but – I am curious. I am an elf, that is how I am made.

I am also patient.

I will wait, and ask him another day.

 

 

But – I think about this. When we lie together, and I know I am more content than I could ever have dreamed of being, I think. When we have made use of the bath, and copious hot water, for hours, I think. When I sit beside him at table, and his hand strays to my leg, I think. When I look up from his lap, as we enjoy the sun, and I see the two Lords sitting so properly side by side on the terrace of the house, each working, while I – I am lying here in his arms, with no work to do, no duty, only love-play – I think. I think how long the ages can be, I think how lonely a heart can feel when the one you love sees nothing of your pain, your need. I think how kind they have tried to be, how not one word of shock or disapproval has been spoken here. I see how, without looking, without speaking, they have their papers arranged so sweetly aligned. I see how when Erestor reaches for a pen that has rolled away, Glorfindel puts his own into his hand, and no thanks are needed. I see how, when Glorfindel’s hand gropes, missing the winecup, Erestor guides him, that he need not look up from whatever he is writing. I wonder how many years they have been like this, dependent, complimentary. And I wonder how many elves have been left aching as I once ached, unknowing as we seem to be – and I wonder why Iluvatar did that to us? Is being firstborn not the perfection we think it? Are we but a craftsman’s trial run, before He made His masterpieces? 

I do not know. I cannot know. But – I know what it is to love, to long, to be in pain and not know why. On the morning we are due to leave, I find a moment to speak to Councillor Erestor.

“My lord, I am sorry,” I say, and although I have prepared, I find I am flushing, “but – we broke one of the beds. I – I would not have you blame a servant.”

He stares at me,  
“Thranduilion, what – what in the name of Manwe were you doing to break a bed? I – I know – Glorfindel reminded me – you comb together – but – to break a bed? How?”

I bite my lip, but – I will say this. I have watched the two of them these five days. They talk – they bicker rather – in a way I know – and yet – they comb together – I have spoken to these elves, and they are known to be vowed – and yet – something in Glorfindel’s eyes tells me – he longs. He knows, I think, something of what more there could be, yet – fears. This warrior fears to risk what he has. And Erestor – I look at him, at the way his gaze follows the other – and I feel – as though I am looking back in time. I may be wrong. But I will take this chance. I have no intention of returning here, and I think – I think the councillor is wise enough to ignore anything he wishes not to hear.

“Gimli is mortal, my lord,” I say, “mortals – have more than combing when they love. As can elves, if they choose. Perhaps you should speak to the lord Glorfindel.” I stop, and turn away, call my Arod, leaving him looking at me in confusion.

Then, when we are mounted, “I thank you for your hospitality, my lords. Should you ever wish to see Ithilien, you are in guestfriendship with us, we will welcome you.”

As we ride away, I look back, and see them watching.

“What did you say to Erestor?” he asks, and I smile as I answer,  
“Pretty much what you said to Glorfindel, I think. I suspect Imladris will seem a – noisier – place to those twins next time they visit.”

He pulls my hair,  
“Elf, are you being mischievous? I know you like not those twins –“

I elbow him, and he ceases.

“I am not,” I say, “I am trying to help. Those two – they love. They know not what joys they are missing. That is all.”

There is silence, save for the sound of hooves on grass.

“Nearly all,” I admit, “if their happiness could also distress the twins – I would not be sorry. But I am not mischievous. Or naughty. So do not you even think about any – games. It is a long ride from here to Ithilien, and I wish to sit this horse in comfort.”

He laughs, and strokes me,  
“Daft sodding elf. I would not be sorry to make those twins think a bit. They are no more friends to me than to you,” he holds me close, and then, “but I am interested you are even thinking about that.”

And I feel my ears redden even as I shake my head in denial.

He leans his head against me, and I know I am safe as he says,  
“One day, my pretty elf, one day. Perhaps.”

Oh, one day. Perhaps one day. 

Anything could happen, one day.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Lay of Glorfindel and Erestor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257701) by [telemachus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus)




End file.
